The Light of Hate
by Arafell
Summary: Tyrael's destruction of the Worldstone has unforeseen consequences. A demon hunter is left to deal with the problem. Trouble is - how?
1. Lord of Destruction

The cracks ran deep in the Worldstone's crimson depths. The inky ribbons wrapping around its exterior were disintegrating along with Baal's blight-spawned corpse, but a hidden darkness seemed to exude from the heart of the stone. Tyrael surveyed it, dismayed to confirm his suspicions. The stone would not hold. The corruption was too deep, too powerful to be rectified. Its purpose had changed – before, it had hidden Sanctuary from both the High Heavens and the Burning Hells. Only half of the ward remained.

"Go." Tyrael spoke, unlimbering his blade. There was only one way to stop it.

"But - " The hero looked at him. The worry in those eyes – he smiled.

"You are everything I ever hoped the Nephillim would become. You will be needed in the time ahead."

With a motion of his hand, an oval rip appeared, floating above the stone platform. Through it was visible the barbarian stronghold - Harrogath. The hero looked back for just a second, but it was enough. Tyrael called upon the energy of creation. The air rippled as a wave of unseen forced slammed into the unsuspecting mortal, throwing him through the portal.

"Wait!" The hero called, reaching out his hand as if to hold the portal open, but it was too late.

"You make me proud," Tyrael said quietly, and the gateway closed with a quiet snap. The Worldstone's hum was the only noise in the chamber. The archangel considered it. "It's time to finish it."

He held his sword out in front of him, assuming his focus, his ideal as the pinnacle of angelic justice. Whispers echoed through the chamber as power flowed through his form, weakened from its struggle with Mephisto. Pain lanced through his wings as they extended to their fullest.

"Se govrosaro de lunos." Lightning struck, lighting a pillar. The pain increased as he drew more power. "Morti atre deus, antihadro halos." The other pillar lit, burning with azure flames. Before the backlash could begin, he focused his power with all the will he could muster, sharpened by his mind and forged in centuries of warfare.

_ Just one time,_ he pleaded with the cosmos.

"Arovo sha'ine, se govre rhobair, la conqresain." _Just once._ The pain built to a crescendo. He dared gather no more strength. His body was at the breaking point, every atom vibrating with power. Tyrael picked up his sword.

And threw it.

Like a bolt of lightning, the crystal blade slammed into the corrupted Worldstone and sank into it. The gem broke like fracturing glass, letting off streams of brilliant light as a reminder of Tyrael's power as it fought against the dark forces holding it together. With a cataclysmic explosion, the Worldstone sent off a million deadly shards, each larger than the largest soulstone ever made. Pure energy scythed through the roof, blasting into the sky like a crimson pillar of fire. Tyrael shielded himself with his depleted wings, but a piece of the shrapnel managed to embed itself into his chest.

He staggered, the wound leaking the light that was an angel's essence. For Tyrael in his prime, it would hardly have been a mortal wound. Now, he could barely pull it out. He sat down, as gracefully as he could with one hand covering the injury. Dust fell from the ceiling. Shards of the stone hissed as they hit the magma underneath, releasing what remained of their energy into the volcano. The beam of energy slowly tapered off. The last echo of power died out, leaving behind – silence.

_Its funny,_ Tyrael thought, staring at the hole in the roof that the Worldstone's destruction had opened. Stars peeked through, illuminating the chamber. _I've never felt closer to humanity, now that I'm close to their mortality._

Contrary to popular mortal opinion, angels were not, in fact, fully immortal. If their form took enough damage to transfer a portion of it to their spirit, they would be banished, in mirror of their demonic counterparts, back to the Spine of Anu until their essence could be restored. In the history of creation, no archangel had ever suffered such an injury, but it was theoretically possible.

"The world still needs me," Tyrael muttered, standing. The floor rumbled beneath him as Mount Arreat awoke. Something impinged upon his senses. He whirled. Where the center of the giant gem had been was the darkness – the flaw that had inspired him to destroy the stone in the first place. It pulsed, a cocoon of evil that seethed in the gloom. It unraveled, revealing a human form with Tyrael's sword impaled through it's slender form.

Somewhere in the pits of the Black Abyss, Tyrael thought he heard Baal laughing.


	2. Into the Dark

The Black Abyss.

Hell's deepest layer.

A place even the demons avoided if they had a choice.

When a demon went to Sanctuary, it did so with the use of one of the Black Gates – gigantic magical structures designed to pierce the veil between dimensions. Previously, the passage had been blocked by the Worldstone, and only one of the Great Evils could open the passage for any real length of time. Now, with the barrier gone, demons as low as the third circle could open the gates and pass through with ease.

Coming back, however, was much less pleasant.

The black sludge that made up the Abyss caught most of the damned that returned and dissolved them. It took extraordinary willpower for a demon to break free and begin the long, tortuous ascent out of the Abyss. Most never made it, and were reprocessed, absorbed, and remade into new hosts. The prime evils, shattered utterly along with their soul stones, were unlikely to return.

Others were more fortunate.

A hand reached out of the corruption, covered in the vile sludge of the Abyss. It grasped the stair and pulled, heaving the rest of the man out of the pit. The cruel, sharp ridges that covered the stone cut into his hand, but he didn't stop. Entirely naked, he crawled up onto the narrow ledge. The wind howled in his ears, stinging his skin where the slime had disappeared and threatening to blow him away if he didn't grip the razors hard enough.

In the sludge, it was the temperature of blood. Up here, it was unnaturally cold. He shivered, but there was no temptation to descend again. Black flakes peeled off him, falling back to where they belonged. He looked up. Far, far above a dim red light shone. Thousands of stairs lay between it and him. He could see movement on a few of them, other things crawling their way up. Something hit the sludge next to him without splashing, a dim reminder of what happened if you failed. In the Burning Hells, the strong survived, and the weak were . . . reconstituted . . . in a constant battle for survival of the fittest. There were no second chances.

_Just wait,_ he thought, the hate filling his mind, giving him strength. _You'll pay for that, Inarius. You and all your worthless temple followers, all your sycophant demons and angels. _

With one hand, he pulled the glowing yellow shard of crystal out of his chest. It had, for some unknown reason, broken off inside him. Once removed, it flickered and faded back into its normal blueish color. With the other hand, he reached for the next razor stair. The wounds on his hand healed in between stairs, then reopened.

_I'm coming._ The thought was both promise and threat.

Authors note:

I didn't get around to it last time, but this story is meant as practice for me. I want to be an author someday, so please rate and review. Who is this mysterious figure? Why does he hate Inarius? What will he do next? How will I make this story interesting? And where does the demon hunter come in? Tune in next time ;)


	3. The Hunter

The hunting was good here.

The arrow flew fast and true. The target screamed, an odd, steel-on-steel sound. The screaming stopped as the second arrow found its home. Racheli lowered her longbow, but didn't relax. The wilds near Ureh were full of Devilkin, and she'd been hunting this area for days.

_Time enough for them to wise up,_ she thought, glancing around her. The clouds across the sun did nothing to ease the tension. She'd killed at least thirty of the monsters, and they showed no sign of diminishing in numbers. If it kept up much longer, she'd be out of arrows killing them with her dagger. Still, a job was a job. The necromancers wanted her to kill the shaman and his 'inner council.'

She didn't normally care that much about the gold, but something about this job. . . She glanced at the city on the hill uneasily. Her instincts had been going off all day. Now that the sun was setting, a strange feeling was beginning to settle in her stomach. Her hands kept wanting to clench into fists. When they drew a fresh arrow, they trembled – slightly.

"What's wrong with me?" Racheli whispered quietly to herself, lowering her bow. If she hadn't known better, she'd say she was poisoned. As it was. . . the atmosphere of the jungle didn't feel natural. The Devilkin drove away or ate much of the original wildlife, but even they seemed more subdued and fearful than normal. Normally, the demons made crude jokes, or boasted in the demonic tongue of bloody conquests. Now, they simply huddled in tight groups.

Camp. That was the right thing to do. She'd set up camp for the night. At least here, in the jungle, it was easy to find a safe place to sleep. Tree's were easy to come by, and the network of vines made it easy to create a makeshift hammock in the upper canopy.

_No fire tonight,_ she thought, drawing her knife to cut a vine. As she did, all hell broke loose.

The sky lit with sudden, eye-tearing brightness as if all the thunderstorms in the world had produced lightning at the same time, each bolt aimed at the city of Ureh. Unlike normal lightning, the color was . . . off. Racheli didn't look directly at it, but she could see even through her hastily raised scarf the reddish glare. Flying animals, demonic or not, erupted from the canopy. Their screeching was drowned out when the concussion hit. She dug her knife into the side of the tree, trying valiantly to avoid a probably deadly fall.

As suddenly as it began, the onslaught stopped. The screeching of blinded and displaced animals continued. A devilkin stumbled underneath her, waving its club randomly as it howled. She drew her bow, knocked an arrow, and killed it in one smooth motion. On any normal day, she would have chuckled, or at least felt a dim sense of pride in her reflexes.

Today wasn't a normal day.

"What in the Burning Hells spawned that?" Racheli asked no one, staring into the distance. The city of Ureh was made of stone, but the lightning storm seemed to have sparked fires nonetheless. The darkness seemed deeper, fuller somehow in the absence of the brilliant light.

_Its just that my night vision is gone, thats all, _she thought, glancing around her nervously. _I'll check it out in the morning. I doubt anything will come at me till then._

She finished her hammock as fast as possible. She needn't have – she didn't dare sleep anyways.


	4. The Hunted

When morning finally came, she let herself down out of the tree gently and quietly. The Devilkin's corpse below her was still there, silent and unmoving. She rummaged through its pockets, finding only grisly trophies, and reclaimed her arrow. Its tracks led her back to her ambush site from the day before. She raised her eyebrows. There were no corpses here. Either something had eaten them, or they'd been resurrected. Considering Devilkin was toxic to most things, and that the things that would consider them tasty didn't live in the forest. . .

She glanced around, looking for archers out of habit. When no lurking enemies presented themselves, she slowly edged out of the woods into the clearing. The ground was disturbed in several places. Many footprints – many Devilkin. The shamans had been here, and they'd been wandering around for quite a while. She cursed her bad luck – she'd almost had them.

_Think positive. They can't have gotten far._ All thought of the strange lightning the night before was pushed way back in her mind. Her targets were ahead. She tracked quickly, following the signs as she was taught as a child. Broken twigs. Bloody leaves. The occasional overturned stone. The trail led out of the clearing and into a river, where she almost lost it before picking it up a ways upstream. It was almost like they knew they were being followed. She narrowed her eyes. It took a great deal of fear to inspire the Devilkin to cleverness, and while she liked the idea that it was her they were afraid of, she very much doubted it. Their cowardliness in battle was one thing – their willingness to fight was another. No matter how many times they ran, if there was an enemy still standing, they came back. Especially if her target was with them.

Cautiously, she edged once more into the forest. The air was already becoming muggy. Today would be another humid, sweat inducing day. The birds had gone quiet again. The sickly sweet smell of rot overpowered her other senses. She covered her nose with her scarf once more and continued on.

Her senses pinged, screaming sudden danger. She flung herself into a forward roll, narrowly evading the two grasping hands of the undead as it lurched at her from behind a tree. Her wrist crossbow fired with a sharp twang. The bolt impacted it in the chest, driving it backwards. The spirit animating the corpse was wounded, but not destroyed. It moaned and shuffled toward her, seeking flesh to fuel its nightmarish existence. This time, she was ready for it. She knocked an arrow, drew the string to her cheek, and fired. The monstrosity fell without a sound, the arrow sprouting from its head forcing the spirit to depart instantaneously.

Breathing raggedly, she stepped forward and considered the arrow. It had broken in half when the zombie had fallen. Cursing to herself, she searched the things pocket and grabbed a couple random coins before continuing on. This time, she kept the mask off.

Following the badly hidden trail the Devilkin left brought her to a cave. _Unsurprising, really,_ she thought. _Devilkin and all their little imp-like brothers seem to love dark places. It's gonna be hell to pursue them down there._

Hell or not, they weren't getting away from her. She grabbed a torch from her pack, poured some oil on it, and continued. She wouldn't light it unless absolutely necessary. She glanced to the side – and recoiled, bringing her bow up.

Outside the cave were spikes, five or six on either side of the entrance. The Devilkin used them as warnings, as well as for bragging rights. After raids, it was common for them to put up human heads or whole corpses as decoration. Not this time. This time, the spikes were decorated with demons. Their tan colored skin suggested that they were once her quarry. The fact that they had all been neatly dismembered was not quite as unsettling as the horrible, screaming terror on their faces. The limbs had been piled together a ways off. Flies covered every surface, buzzing and batting against her now-raised scarf. She'd take her chances with the undead sneaking up on her.

Shuddering, she lit her torch and proceeded into the cave. None of them had been the shaman. She had to be sure. The caves walls glistened wetly in the light of her torch with what she hoped was water. With only one hand, she was forced to rely on her wrist bow and, if she had to, a grenade. Somehow, she doubted it'd be necessary.

After going down a ways, the cave opened up. This was the main den. Bones littered every corner. Crude animal hides lay across the floor, where the demons had made their putrid nests. In one corner, metal glinted. She got closer, curious. The shaman's terrified, dead visage greeted her. He'd been nailed to the Devilkin's altar by his hands and feet.

With all the discipline of her order, she kept the bile down and, with one finger, touched the leathery hide of its neck.

_Still warm,_ she noted analytically. _It couldn't have happened more than a couple hours ago._

"What the hell did this?" She wondered, leaning back. A sudden movement from the corner of the cave startled her. She swung her crossbow to face the threat and raised the torch. The illumation revealed -

a girl, probably about the age of twelve. Behind her was an open – well, broken – wicker cage. Racheli eased her finger on the trigger, but didn't fully lower the weapon. Too many things took the guise of a child these days.

"Uh -" She hesitated. What was she supposed to say? "Are you alright?"

The little girl stared, her wide eyes terrified. Sheepishly, the demon hunter lowered her crossbow, though she stayed out of arms reach just in case.

"Come out into the light," she said, and to her relief the girl followed her out of the cave. Now that she could see her better, she noticed the rents in her clothing and the blood the streaked her face. For a moment, she toyed with the notion that the girl had somehow killed the demons, but she dismissed it almost immediately. She stepped closer. The girl shrunk backwards, but Racheli was too fast. With one smooth motion, she knelt and gripped her shoulders. Words came to her then – words she'd heard from her mentor, as her mentor had heard from his teacher.

"When the demons came, you probably ran," Racheli said, locking eyes with her. "Ran as hard as you could, until you couldn't take another step. Until your legs turned to lead and your lungs to fire. Until they caught you."

The girls lip trembled slightly. If Racheli had had any doubts, that banished them. Demons weren't capable of sorrow.

"I didn't have a choice," she said, her voice cracking, her eyes hopeless. She was broken inside – her ordeal had been far too much for her.

But not for a demon hunter.

"There's always a choice, child," she whispered. Finally, the girl couldn't hold herself back. She latched onto the demon hunter and wouldn't let go. If any demons had been within a mile, they would have heard her crying, but Ratcheli didn't care. She simply stroked the girls hair and waited for the sobs to end, for the girl to look up at her with that light in her eyes that she knew all too well.

The light of vengeance. The light of hate.


End file.
